


Lane Splitting

by WellTemperedClavier



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellTemperedClavier/pseuds/WellTemperedClavier
Summary: When Jane learns some surprising facts about her heritage, she heads up to Boston with high hopes.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

((Author's Note with Mild Chapter 1 Spoiler: This story deals with Jane learning that Vincent is not her biological father, and that she is half-Japanese. I myself am half-Japanese.))

 **Chapter 1  
**  
When the sight of her mother’s car pulled up in the driveway inspired something _other_ than annoyance, Jane knew it was a sign that she’d spent too much time kicking around in Lawndale.  
  
She paused on the sidewalk, the thin shirt of her PayDay uniform scant protection against the October chill. Mom had probably already hidden herself in the kiln room, her luggage dropped with haphazard indifference throughout the disaster area of the living room. Jane knew the score: mom would hole up in there for a few weeks, popping out on occasion to ask Jane to fetch groceries or run other errands while ignoring the angry bills piling up in the mailbox.  
  
And then she’d disappear as suddenly as she came.  
  
But at least it was a change from the monotony of the past few months. Memories of Lawndale High receded into the past, BFAC still many months away. Easy for Jane to believe she existed in a hazy eternity of long retail shifts and longer nights spent listening to her Walkman, her paints growing stale in their vials.  
  
She opened the door to her house. Unopened luggage bags slouched on the threadbare sofas and rotting carpets, just as expected. Similarly expected was the sound of Andean panpipes on her mother’s radio down in the basement.  
  
How long could they avoid each other? If Jane went straight up to her room they might never even see each other before mom’s next jaunt to Oregon or Brazil or wherever the hell she wanted to go. Not like mom would ever bother going all the way up to the second floor.  
  
She’d _hate_ to disturb the beautiful creativity of her children.  
  
Jane’s booted feet made loud thumps on the rickety basement staircase as she resigned herself to saying hi to the woman who’d birthed her. Amanda’s back was turned to the door, her hands busy sorting through a dozen red clay vases spun to look like O’Keefe flowers.  
  
“Hi, mom. Didn’t expect you back,” Jane said.  
  
No response. She probably hadn’t heard Jane over the music. She was about to try again when an overwhelming sense of futility washed over her. Mom would never notice. She didn’t need anyone. Same as dad, and Trent, and all her sisters. And Daria, for that matter.  
  
Sighing in disgust, Jane shook her head and started up the stairs.  
  
“Oh, hello, Jane! I didn’t know you were still living here,” came mom’s voice, relaxed in the way that only came from a lifetime free of care.  
  
“Not for much longer,” Jane said, and managed to keep the anger out of her voice. “I’ll be up in my room. Just came down here to see if one of those hobos had broken in again.”  
  
“It is pretty warm,” mom said. “I guess I couldn’t blame them.”  
  
 _Because you don’t have to deal with them!  
_  
Now wishing the house was back to its ordinarily empty state, Jane stumped up the stairs onto the first floor, and then up to her room on the second.  
  
Not bothering to change out of her uniform, Jane stretched out on her bed. She stared at the darkened ceiling and let her mind wander.  
  
Maybe, if she pretended to sleep, she’d hear another pair of feet tiptoeing up the creaky stairs. While she lay there with eyes closed the door would open. Mom would stand in the doorway, eyes teary as she saw the daughter she’d so long neglected.  
  
Then carefully, ever so carefully, she’d pull the blankets up to Jane’s chin. A warm careworn hand would lay on her shoulders, heavy with the weight of a parent’s love. And yes she did love her youngest child and she always had but just never knew how to show it. Only in the silence of night, through the veil of sleep, in the softness of dream could mom let Jane know how much she mattered, how much she was _needed_.  
  
But there was nothing. Jane lay on her sheets, air around her chillier by the minute. Going under the sheets for warmth felt like admitting defeat.  
  
Suffering at least meant she existed.  
  
*********  
  
Cold always made it harder to sleep. Yawning, Jane sat up from her bed, the room still dark around her except for the lurid red numbers of her digital clock. Two in the morning.  
  
Her next shift didn’t start until afternoon. No big deal.  
  
Shivering, she noticed how dry her mouth had gotten. Some water might not be a bad idea.  
  
Jane saw light glowing in the kitchen as she descended the stairs. Mom was there, looking ten years younger than her age, her hair thick and auburn, her face lined but still with a youthful sheen. She sat at the table holding a homemade clay mug full of black coffee, eyes closed in bliss as she soaked in the warmth and the rich aroma.  
  
Coffee would be nice, Jane thought. But unlike Amanda, she had real work to do in about ten hours, and at least a few hours of sleep to get in before then.  
  
“It is good to see you, Jane,” mom said, not bothering to open her eyes.  
  
“Uh, thanks. You too, mom. So where are you headed off to next? And when?”  
  
“I haven’t decided yet.” Mom’s eyes finally opened, relaxed and indifferent. “Vincent said he might be snapping some photos of old Spanish buildings in Florida. There’s an arts festival there I’ve been meaning to visit.”  
  
“Florida’s a big state. What part is he visiting?”  
  
Mom looked up to the ceiling. “Hmm, I should ask him.”  
  
Jane took a faded glass out from the cupboard and filled it with tap water. Turning around, she leaned against the counter and took a sip while studying her mother.  
  
“That might be a good idea,” Jane said. “By the way, there’s a property tax bill that came in a while ago. I can cover the utilities but I need some parental backup for Uncle Sam.”  
  
Mom shook her head and sighed. “I worry about you, Jane. Taxes are the last thing someone your age should be thinking about.”  
  
“I agree.”  
  
“But you are getting older. You’re sixteen now.”  
  
“Eighteen. I graduated a few months ago.”  
  
“Oh!” Mom’s expression brightened. “My little girl’s a woman.”  
  
“Yeah. Just spare me the birds and the bees talk.”  
  
Mom leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching. “You look more and more like your father each time I see you.”  
  
Couldn’t she at _least_ make the attempt to do something other than talk in clichés? “Yeah, genetics tend to do that.”  
  
“I remember when you were younger everyone thought you looked just like Vincent.”  
  
Jane blinked, and then frowned. “Didn’t you just say I looked more like him every day?”  
  
“No, I said you look like your _father_. Edwin.”  
  
Jane hurriedly put the glass back on the table before she had a chance drop it.  
  
“ _What_?!”  
  
An unsure look crossed mom’s face. “Edwin. Your biological father.”  
  
Jane gripped the edges of the counter with both hands. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I thought I told you. Hm, I must’ve forgotten to do that. You know your father—well, Vincent, so your legal father—anyway, Vincent and I believe love is something to be shared, not kept just to ourselves. We’ve had an open marriage since after Wind was born.”  
  
“Wait, hold on!” Jane held out her hand. “You’re telling me dad—I mean, Vincent—isn’t really my dad?”  
  
“I guess it depends on how you see it. I see the world as my true parent anyway,” Amanda said, glowing with satisfaction.  
  
Her heart thundering in her chest, Jane took numbed steps toward the table. She pulled out a chair with a shaking hand and sat down. Her brain wanted to shut down. This had to be a bad joke.  
  
Except she’d always been different from the rest of her family.  
  
“You said—” Jane’s voice broke, and she gulped to keep from crying. What a mess. “My real dad’s name is Edwin?”  
  
“Yes. I met him at an art commune. Edwin Matsuoka.” Mom spoke the last name with relish.  
  
This night was full of surprises.  
  
“Okay,” Jane said, trying to stay calm. In a strange way, this explained so much. She didn’t look Asian—but she didn’t exactly look white, either. “So what’s he like? Where is he now?”  
  
“Edwin played in a folk band from out of California. Vincent and I both took a shine to him. He’s Trent’s father, too.”  
  
“Does Trent know about this?”  
  
“He should, shouldn’t he! Does Trent still live here?”  
  
“He’s been spending a lot of time at Jesse’s, but yeah, he still does.” Jane’s mind refused to settle. A million questions fought their way to her tongue, and mom just sat there in her usual stupid serenity. “You don’t know where Edwin is? You didn’t even _try_ to keep in touch?”  
  
“Love is like a butterfly—”  
  
“You know what?” Jane said, pushing back from the table, “I can’t take that as an answer right now. I need to think about this.”  
  
Mom nodded, again grasping her mug and returning to her coffee meditation. Her entire body trembling, a dozen emotions warring for supremacy, Jane inched her way up the stairs.  
  
But crazy as this was, the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**  
  
Telling Trent over the phone wouldn’t cut it.  
  
Jane stood out curb in front of her house, jittery from three cups of coffee and zero hours of sleep. She’d called Trent at daybreak and by some miracle caught him awake and more or less alert. All she said was that she had something she had to talk about, made her voice sound as urgent as possible so that he got the message.  
  
And miracle of miracles, he did.  
  
Normally she knew better than to actually wait for her brother. Smarter to do something else inside, maybe paint something for once. Except she could not stay in that crumbling old wreck where mom slept in comfortable indifference. She _needed_ to be out of the Lane house and all its rotten rooms and bleak memories.  
  
As someone who was only half a Lane, she wasn’t obliged to stay.  
  
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Jane hugged herself and craned her neck for any sign of her brother. The sound of a motor strained from long neglect announced his presence.  
  
The Tank lurched up to the curb. Jane yanked open the passenger door and threw herself inside. Suddenly at a loss for words, she stared agape at Trent.  
  
Trent looked at her, his face impassive. “Everything okay, Janey?”  
  
“No. Yes. How the hell should I know?” Jane ran through her options on how to introduce this, finally just went for the direct option. “Mom came back yesterday. She told me Vincent isn’t our dad.”  
  
She hadn’t been sure what reaction to expect from Trent—but she thought it’d be more than a few slow blinks.  
  
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.  
  
“Yeah, I heard you.”  
  
“Wait, so you _knew_ about this?”  
  
“Nope. Where do you want to go?”  
  
Jane thought a minute. Her work shift wasn’t too far off. “PayDay, I guess.”  
  
Trent pushed the stick into drive and moved away from the curb. Houses and trees passed them by while Jane watched her brother.  
  
“You’re taking this awfully quietly. Look, mom _literally_ told me last night that Vincent isn’t our dad. It’s some guy named Edwin.” She trailed off, trying to recall the last name. “Edwin Matsuoka. I guess mom and Vincent were in an open relationship, and that’s how we happened.”  
  
Still no real reaction from Trent. He leaned back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel.  
  
“Are you going to say anything?”  
  
“I’m thinking, Jane. I’m thinking. Hey, do you remember that song ‘Turning Japanese’?”  
  
“That’s _all_ you have to say?” She wanted to shout or cry—anything to get some reaction other than the same too-cool-for-school diffidence.  
  
“What do you want me to say? I don’t think it really makes a difference that Vincent wasn’t our dad.”  
  
Jane took slow and short breaths. She was still quivering. Why didn’t anyone else _care_ about this? “Doesn’t make a difference?”  
  
“We still are who we are.”  
  
“But who _are_ we? Don’t you _get_ it, Trent? We don’t need to be like mom and dad because dad isn’t our dad! We need to find out who this Edwin guy is. Maybe we’re not destined to be a bunch of screw-ups after all.”  
  
Trent glanced at her and then put his eyes back on the road. Jane stiffened, her cheeks hot. No wonder he didn’t care about this news. He _liked_ being this way. A dead-end life where he’d play rock star for a few more years before giving up and settling into some crap job where he’d bore younger coworkers with stories of his so-called glory days. A slightly nicer Tommy Sherman with delusions of musical talent.  
  
He hadn’t wanted her to go to BFAC at first. Maybe this came from the same place. Easier for him to be a screw-up if he thought she’d be the same.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re just shrugging this off,” she said quietly.  
  
“You know me, Janey. I take things as they are.”  
  
Somehow, she couldn’t give up that quickly. “Come on, Trent. _Think_ about it. Did mom ever give any hints about this before? Or dad—I mean, Vincent? Since he knew about this, too. Hell, maybe he’s got some other kids we don’t even know about.”  
  
“I can’t think of anything.”  
  
“What if we go and try to find Edwin—I mean, dad?”  
  
Trent made a doubtful grunt. “I don’t know. Me and Jesse are working on some new songs right now and we’re in a pretty good place. Don’t want to lose that.”  
  
Red flashed in Jane’s vision. So typical of the Lanes. “Don’t want to lose what? Another song no one’s going to listen to or remember? You guys will be lucky to get a one-hit wonder!” she shouted.  
  
“Whoa!”  
  
“I can’t believe it!” she fumed. “You’re just like mom, completely stuck in your own goddamn world! Maybe _you_ want to be a Lane, but guess what? Turns out I can be a Matsuoka! And maybe that’s a lot better! Stop the car, I’m walking the rest of the way.”  
  
Trent glanced at her and gulped. Still driving, he opened his mouth as if to say something only to shut it again a moment later. He slowed the Tank down and again pulled to the curb.  
  
“I wasn’t trying to make you mad, Jane. I just don’t want you to—”  
  
She’d already unbuckled the seat belt and opened the door, the caffeine and sleeplessness now joined by a jolt of rage. “Who cares. You sure don’t.”  
  
Free of the car she slammed the door shut and stalked away. It was some time before she saw the Tank pass her.  
  
*********  
  
Nothing went well at work. Jane miscounted items, took the industrial duct tape intended for the Garage section and placed it with Office Supplies, and knocked a glass vase off of a shelf.  
  
“Get yourself together, Lane,” were the words of her supervisor, Norma, at the end of the shift.  
  
Okay, so she’d been true to her mother’s side of the family that one day. But she had a lot on her mind.  
  
She wondered if she’d been too hard on Trent. But she didn’t want to talk to him just then. Simply thinking about him brought back all the lean and lonely years in that creaky old deathtrap.  
  
Mom’s radio blared from the basement when Jane got back, but her door was shut. Jane tried the knob once, found it locked, and decided not to bother. She doubted that mom remembered more than a few details about Edwin.  
  
What mom forgot the Internet might remember. Jane signed in, tapping her fingers on the table as the modem stumbled through its symphony of beeps and buzzes. She missed the high-speed connection the Lane house used to have—another casualty of inconsistent payments.  
  
Her hands flew to the keyboard once the computer got online only to stop.  
  
She had no clue what she might find.  
  
All Jane knew was Edwin’s name and that he’d been in a folk band from California. Beyond that, nothing. Edwin could be almost anything: a professional musician, an investment banker, or six feet under for the past ten years.  
  
What if the Matsuokas were worse than her own family?  
  
She shook her head. They’d have to be really bad to be worse than the Lanes. Jane might have a whole new family waiting for her out in California. Maybe even some family in Japan itself. A chance to see the bright lights of Tokyo’s sprawl and the carefully tended Zen gardens with her own two eyes.  
  
What did she even know about Japan? Jane hesitated again. She liked some of the art, particularly from the _ukiyo-e_ period. But it’s not like she spoke any Japanese or knew much about the modern country beyond it being rich and beautiful and full of gadgets and other things that made American nerds fall to their knees in awe.  
  
She actually liked Chinese food more than Japanese food.  
  
Her fingers typed out the name “Edwin Matsuoka” and hit Enter. It took a while to comb through the irrelevant results and find something useful: a dusty-looking folk music fan site with a brief description of a band called The Orange County Hometown Family Experience that boasted one Edwin Matsuoka as the front man.  
  
She frowned. The name was pure ‘60s schmaltz. No wonder mom had fallen for the guy.  
  
Clicking on the link, she saw a faded .jpg of the band. Standing at the front was a thin man with wind-tossed black hair and chiseled cheeks, an acoustic guitar in his hands. The guy could’ve been Trent after a retro makeover and a few good meals.  
  
The website didn’t offer much real info, other than that the band had been active from 1979 to 1985. Searching for the band name itself didn’t offer much—they hadn’t made much of an impact.  
  
Edwin hadn’t really gotten far in the music business. But that was okay. A lot of people screwed up when they were young. Searches for the man himself, however, proved inconclusive. Jane had a name, a photo, and a band affiliation. Not much to build a father-daughter relationship on.  
  
She needed to talk to someone. But who? As was so often the case, she only really had one fallback option outside of her family.  
  
Picking up the phone, she opened up her paltry contact list, Daria’s name between Jesse and the now-inaccurately-titled Dad. Her right index finger hovered above the “Talk” button.  
  
She hesitated. Trent had brushed it off like no big deal. Why would Daria, who had even less reason to care, be any different? It’s not like Daria ever called to see how things were going. Jane was just another part of Lawndale best left behind.  
  
Jane let the phone drop onto her bed. She didn’t actually want to wade through Daria’s drab monotone and try to figure out what was a joke and what was sincere—not like anything was ever sincere, with her.  
  
Irony wasn’t what she needed right now.  
  
Okay, so if she couldn’t talk to someone, what could she do?  
  
Edwin presented two big complications. The first, that Jane (and Trent, though he didn’t care) wasn’t related to Vincent Lane in any way shape or form.  
  
The second, that she was Asian.  
  
Or was she a Pacific Islander? Japan was always listed as part of Asia, but it did consist of islands in the Pacific. Was she a European-Asian-Pacific Islander?  
  
Jane walked over to her desk and picked up a small plastic hand mirror lying next to the computer. She held it up to her face. Her jet-black hair could certainly be Asian. Her facial features looked European. Blue eyes, no hint of an epicanthal fold. A small nose but that didn’t really say anything either way.  
  
How could she be sure? Maybe Vincent really was her biological dad. It’s not like mom was the type to keep particularly close track.  
  
“Dammit,” she muttered.  
  
What did it mean to be Asian-American? Did half-Asians qualify as Asian-American? What about half-Asians who looked ridiculously white?  
  
Jane knelt down next to her bed and reached underneath, her hand groping through dirty sweaters and old school papers, not sure if what she was looking for was still there. Finally her fingers landed on a hard flat surface, and pressed in.  
  
She dragged out her junior year yearbook. Yearbooks weren’t her thing, really; she’d only gotten it because she once had an idea of an art project involving a lot of torn up high school photos. After the drama with Tom and Daria though, she just didn’t have the energy.  
  
Lawndale High’s token diversity had included a few Asian students. Maybe she could talk to one. Learn a bit about her new identity.  
  
But she wasn’t curious enough to want to talk to Principal Li about it.  
  
She opened the yearbook up to the clubs section, specifically the page the Fashion Club shared with the Ecological Society and the Lawndale chapter of the Future Farmers of America. Her eyes settled on Tiffany Blum-Deckler, her vacant eyes lost in the clouds as always. What could she possibly learn from Tiffany?  
  
And what was the story behind her surname, anyway? Adoption?  
  
Jane flipped through some more pages. There was ever-smiling Rob Vo whom she’d never talked to. Kristen Leung, whom she’d seen at the ‘Zon a few times, but also never talked to. Nancy Wu, who’d always hovered at the edge of popularity, and equally unknown to Jane.  
  
She remembered another Asian girl, one with short hair. It took a bit longer to find her: Natasha Ibrahimova. The name sounded more Russian than anything else.  
  
Russia did have a big old border with China and Mongolia. It stood to reason there’d be Asians there. Though geographically speaking, wouldn’t everyone east of the Urals be Asian regardless of what they looked like? What constituted an Asian, anyway?  
  
Still, another person she’d never actually talked to.  
  
And why hadn’t she? Jane never really noticed any of them, their faces lost in the blur of Lawndale High. Was it just her being her usual stand-offish self? Or was it some kind of subconscious racism? A tremendous oversight, either way.  
  
Frustrated, she slammed the yearbook shut. She didn’t even know what she’d ask any of them if she did have some way of getting in touch. What’s it like to be Asian? The thought made her cringe.  
  
She again thought of Tiffany, the only one of the five she’d ever interacted with, however fleetingly. Jane actually _did_ have a way to contact Tiffany.  
  
Said way being someone who might at least pretend to care about her situation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
**  
“Your mom _forgot_ to tell you?”  
  
Jane had to admit that Quinn’s shock and indignation felt pretty damn gratifying. Seeing her own emotions play out on someone else made it easier for Jane to relax, as if she’d somehow shifted the burden.  
  
They sat at a table in Pizza King, the greasy joint unchanged since Jane’s last visit with Daria back in early August. Now she shared it with a different Morgendorffer.  
  
“Oh, that’s nothing!” Jane said, and for a second almost believed it. “You should have been there when she forgot to pick me up from—”  
  
“That’s like so inconsiderate! I mean, he’s your _dad_! Your _real_ dad. That’s definitely something a girl has a right to know.”  
  
“Good to know we’re on the same page.”  
  
Quinn’s expression turned quizzical, her head tilting slightly. “But what does this have to do with Tiffany?”  
  
“So it turns out that my real dad’s name is Edwin Matsuoka.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Matsuoka’s a Japanese name. Which means I’m Asian. Half-Asian, anyway. And well, I don’t really know anyone else who’s Asian.”  
  
“Ohhh! Hm, so I actually don’t hang out that much with Tiffany these days. It’s not like we hate each other or anything but… well, we kind of drifted after the summer, you know?”  
  
“Not part of the Fashion Club anymore?”  
  
“Jane, we broke that up this summer.”  
  
That was a shock. “Oh! I guess I didn’t hear about it. New batch of friends?”  
  
“I still spend a lot of time with Stacy, and I hang out with Joey a lot who’s like, actually really an interesting guy when he isn’t trying to impress me all the time. Did you know he can speak Italian?”  
  
“What about your little queen bee?”  
  
 _And why_ , Jane thought, _do I suddenly care so much about this?_  
  
“Who, Sandi? Oh, she’s with those preppy kids now. I still say hi to her when I see her. It’s funny, when you’re a freshman you just think you’re going to be friends with your friends forever. And now most of us have drifted.”  
  
Quinn gave Jane a searching look, her mouth tensing as if about to say something. Then she relaxed and sat back in her chair, her gaze gone from certainty to peppy.  
  
“Anyway, I could definitely ask Tiffany. She’s really nice so I’m sure she’ll say yes. She is adopted though, and I don’t think she really knows much about China.”  
  
“I figured she was adopted,” Jane said. “Which is actually kind of a reason why I wanted to talk to her. She might not know anything about her ethnic background and I certainly don’t. We’re kind of in the same boat.”  
  
“Tiffany told me once that the Blum-Decklers actually adopted her from Mexico and that her real parents were Chinese people who lived there or something. I really don’t know how it all went down.”  
  
Asians who were also Hispanic. It made sense, though Jane had never really thought about it before.  
  
Quinn continued. “What exactly do you want to ask her?”  
  
Jane took a deep breath. “I guess I was hoping someone could show me the ropes, sort of? I mean, is there anything I should or shouldn’t say or do?” Jane cringed at how ridiculous her request sounded. Just once though, it’d be nice to have some answers.  
  
“You know what? Forget it, I have no clue what I’m talking about,” Jane said.  
  
“No, I get it! Well, sort of get it. I guess I don’t get it, but yeah, I know what it’s like to be confused.”  
  
“Don’t worry about asking Tiffany,” Jane said, shaking her hand for emphasis. “Honestly, I think I just wanted to talk to someone who’d listen. So yeah, thanks for that.”  
  
“Sure. Mom and dad say you’re practically family. And I guess it’s hard for Daria to help right now with her being in Boston and everything.”  
  
Jane shook her head. “I didn’t call Daria, actually.”  
  
“Oh. I was sort of hoping you had.” The confidence vanished from her voice.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Quinn hugged herself. “We’re a little worried about her. She’s getting kind of weird again, like she used to be. Before she met you.”  
  
Interesting. Jane had figured Daria had just gone off to embrace college life. “It’s been a while since I talked to her. But tell you what, I’ll give her a call.”  
  
“Thanks. I mean, mom and dad and me talk to her _all_ the time. Some of the time, anyway. But it doesn’t feel like we’re ever getting through. You were the only one who ever did, I think.”  
  
“One of my talents.”  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to ask Tiffany?” Quinn asked.  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’d just be weird. Probably time for me to go, anyway.”  
  
She said bye to Quinn and walked home as the day waned. Trying to talk to Tiffany had been a terrible idea—but one with a happy result. Hard to believe she’d ever dismissed Quinn as a shallow twit.  
  
Actually, Quinn _had_ been a shallow twit a few years ago—it’s just that Jane and Daria hadn’t really been any better. But everyone grew up, even the aimless Lanes.  
  
Jane postponed calling Daria for a bit. Instead she made another attempt to track down her father on Google. Noting how cumbersome of a name “The Orange County Hometown Family Experience” really was, she tried a few variations paired with “Matsuoka”, hoping that she might stumble upon some fan piece that had omitted a word or two.  
  
Three hours later, her vision bleached by the monitor’s harsh glare, she found a bit on a hard rock band called Neon Screamers, fronted by Edwin Matsuoka, formerly of The Orange County Hometown Experience.  
  
The Internet had a bit more information on the Neon Screamers, which had started in 1988. So something dad had done after his old folk band. At least his naming choices were consistently embarrassing. They’d apparently played throughout Florida in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s without much distinction, releasing a single album that no one had purchased.  
  
Trent really did take after dad. But the early ‘90s were a long time ago. If she and Quinn could both grow throughout high school, who’s to say Edwin wouldn’t do the same over a longer period?  
  
The trail of Neon Screamers ended in 1992, when the band relocated to Boston.  
  
Jane breathed in, held it for a bit, and then breathed out.  
  
More searches as the night wore on, Jane’s coffee-fueled fingers flying across the keyboard. Not much came up. All she got was that Edwin Matsuoka, formerly of The Orange County Hometown Family Experience, was last seen in Boston.  
  
It seemed too good to be true. And for Lanes, nothing good was ever true. Maybe the Matsuokas would fare better.  
  
The digital clock read 10:12. Daria had always been a night owl.  
  
Jane forced herself to call before she had a chance to second-guess herself. The phone rang a few times before a familiar flat voice answered.  
  
“Jane?”  
  
“Hey, Daria. Do you have a minute?”  
  
“More minutes than I really want, actually. What’s up?”  
  
So far, so good.  
  
“Sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while,” Jane said.  
  
“It’s only been two weeks.”  
  
Jane hesitated. Was Daria angry at her for not calling? Or did she really not think two weeks was a big deal? Neither option made her feel better.  
  
“We used to talk a lot more often—look, I learned something kind of weird about myself…”  
  
Jane told the story again. She tried to make it sound like a joke. Best way to get to Daria, after all. No point in risking genuine emotion.  
  
Daria was silent for a moment after Jane finished. “Well, the good news is that you have that much less in common with the rest of your family.”  
  
Jane tasted bitterness for a moment. She ignored it. “Don’t get too optimistic on me, Daria. Edwin is Trent’s dad, too.”  
  
“Did you tell him about it? And if you did, did he care?”  
  
“Why, no, he didn’t care,” Jane said through clenched teeth. “But I did find some information on dad by searching the web. Last mention of him is being in Boston. Since you’re there and I’m not, would you, um, mind trying to dig up his contact info?”  
  
Like hell was she going to tell Daria about dad’s old bands. Jane didn’t need that mockery.  
  
“Uh, okay.” The simple way Daria said it made Jane relax a little. “I’ll take a look at the records.”  
  
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. Also, I’m not calling too late, am I?”  
  
Jane knew she wasn’t.  
  
“No, but much like the nameless student in Franz Kafka’s classic, _Amerika_ , I’ve learned to forego sleep in favor of a steady coffee intake.”  
  
“Heh,” Jane said, faking the laugh. Kafka had always been Daria’s thing, though Jane had read a few short stories at her friend’s urging. “Don’t think I read that one. College is keeping you pretty busy?”  
  
“Not really. Mind-altering substances just make the stupidity here more tolerable and caffeine’s cheaper and more legal than most others.”  
  
Jane would have found that hilarious, once.  
  
“Gotta watch that pocketbook,” Jane said.  
  
“I probably should go. I’ll spend some time searching for your dad before I go to bed.”  
  
“Thanks, I really appreciate—”  
  
The phone clicked as Daria hung up.  
  
“No wonder Quinn was worried,” Jane said to herself.  
  
Still too nerved up to sleep, Jane killed some time watching TV before finally going to sleep at midnight.  
  
She checked her email the next morning and saw a message from Daria sent at 3:28 am.  
  
“ _Jane-  
  
Finding Edwin Matsuoka turned out to be easier than I thought it’d be. Much like you once did when searching for the residence of a certain misguided English teacher, all I had to do was look him up in the phonebook. He does live in Boston and his contact information is as follows._”  
  
The phone number was underneath the text. All Jane had to do now was call.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4  
  
** Jane almost fainted when she heard the first ring. This was really happening.  
  
It rang again. She wiped the sweat off her forehead. Another ring.  
  
Needing to sit down before she passed out, Jane plopped down on the bed, body tense and breath held.  
  
The line rang once more, tinny and distant.  
  
“You have reached the voice mailbox of—”  
  
She hung up. Groaning, she leaned forward until her chin hovered above her knees. Naturally she’d call when Edwin wasn’t there.  
  
But it was 8:30 in the morning. Which meant Edwin—dad—was probably busy at work the way a Lane would never be. Jane let herself smile. She’d just try again later, after her own work shift that afternoon. She’d be there on-time and ready to work, like always.  
  
Like (she hoped) a Matsuoka.  
  
Work lasted an eternity that day. Every word spoken sounded like it came from a thousand miles away as Jane’s mind churned through the possibilities, keeping just enough brain-space for her to do her job without complaint.  
  
Things would make sense in a few hours. Maybe Edwin had made some bad choices early on but he’d wised up since then. And with him a whole new family of people who knew what they were doing!  
  
Since that’s how Asian families usually were, right? Jane knew it was a stereotype but didn’t stereotypes sometimes have a grain of truth? Moms and dads who tolerated no slack but pushed their kids forward every step of the way, guiding them past the pitfalls of laziness and indifference with stern but loving warnings tempered by millennia of wisdom. Big families _unlike_ hers in that they watched out for each other in a strange and hostile world.  
  
She saw it in her mind’s eye, the Japanese family she’d never known standing before a neat home of wood and paper, dressed in flower-patterned kimonos and ushering her in with gentle hands and precisely pronounced Japanese words she imagined she understood. Plied with rice and steaming hot tea she’d tell them about life under the Lanes and her new family’s mouths would open in shock at how brave and _disciplined_ she’d been, so unlike these lazy Americans, and then draw her in close so that their silk-sleeved arms held her tight and in quiet voices they’d tell her she was one of them and they’d teach her the graceful bows and ancient tea ceremonies (they had tea ceremonies, right?), and place her within a world that had _roots_ , something that had lasted for _ages and ages_ and of which Jane would be only one small part but still _a_ part and let her be more than dust on the wind already forgotten by the world.  
  
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Jane made a beeline for the restroom. Inside, she leaned against the wall and let herself sob quietly for a few minutes. Done, she turned on the faucet and cupped her hands to catch the water.  
  
A stupid fantasy. Probably a racist one, too. Edwin’s family was _American_ of Japanese descent, so they probably lived in a suburban home just like the ones in Lawndale.  
  
She splashed her face, her emotional outburst giving way to vague embarrassment. Best to keep things realistic. And to focus on her job.  
  
The world still felt unreal by the time she got back home. It was almost 9:00. Assuming Edwin kept a normal schedule, this was probably a good time to call. Taking her phone, she redialed her last call and put it up to her ear.  
  
Here goes nothing.  
  
“Hello?” came a deep but otherwise unremarkable voice on the other end.  
  
Jane stifled the yelp in her throat. “Hi. Is this Edwin Matsuoka?”  
  
A pause. “It is.”  
  
“The one who fronted a band called The Orange County Home Town Family Experience?”  
  
Another pause. “Uh, yeah. A long, long time ago. I haven’t heard that name in years.”  
  
“And while you were in that band were…”  
  
Jane hesitated. How should she say this? If she screwed up she might not get another chance.  
  
“Hello?” Edwin said.  
  
“I’m still here. Sorry. Were you in a relationship with a woman named Amanda Lane?”  
  
She heard the sharply drawn breath on the other end. “Who is this?” he asked.  
  
“Jane. Your daughter.”  
  
“Really? Dammit.”  
  
He didn’t hang up though. They stayed on the line, both waiting for more to be said.  
  
“So you’re my dad?” Jane pressed on.  
  
“I mean… I don’t know. What’s your sister’s name? The other daughter I had?”  
  
Jane gulped, breathed in. “Is that a trick question? I have a brother, your son. Trent.”  
  
“Yeah, that was a trick question. You passed. So what now?”  
  
“I was hoping you’d know, dad.” Calling him that didn’t sound right. Hadn’t sounded right with Vincent, either. Probably just took time.  
  
“Sorry. This is a little overwhelming,” he said.  
  
“Me too. Like father like daughter, huh?”  
  
Jane immediately regretted falling back on cliché. But clichés did serve their purpose, their glibness and laziness easing difficult situations.  
  
“I guess?”  
  
“Why don’t we meet up in person? You live in Boston, right?”  
  
“How did you know that?”  
  
“Internet.”  
  
Another pause. “Right. Look, Jane, I wasn’t trying to hide from you guys or anything. It’s just… Amanda said she’d raise you. Guess she’s really into that whole mother thing. And Vincent seemed cool  
with it.”  
  
“Into that whole mother thing?” Jane repeated, shaking her head. Maybe Amanda lied to Edwin to keep him out. Mom _always_ got things to go her way, and if she’d been into treating her kids like a collection at the time, it served to reason she wouldn’t want to share. “Anyway, how about it? Maybe this weekend? I’m down in Lawndale so I can come up.”  
  
Her heart seemed to freeze mid-beat.  
  
“I mean… yeah, I guess that’s fair. Yeah, it’d be good to see my daughter again. Last time you were, well, a baby. Is Trent coming?”  
  
“No,” Jane said, stretching out the sound of her denial. “He’s, uh, out of town for a few weeks. But I’ll let him know.”  
  
“Yeah, okay. I’m pretty busy most days but I can make some time on Saturday.”  
  
“Busy doing what?”  
  
“I have a couple of jobs. Transportation related, mostly.”  
  
“I work in retail,” Jane said.  
  
“It’s a place to start.”  
  
They exchanged contact information and arranged a meeting place. By the time Jane hung up she was drenched in sweat and trembling. Falling down on her bed she gave herself a minute to calm down.  
  
It was happening. No way to know what kind of snarl had caused her to end up with Amanda and Vincent, but that was past. Whatever mistakes Edwin—dad—had made, she’d already forgiven him for them.  
  
Still incredulous at the day’s events, she again reached for her phone. Best to tell Daria.  
  
Almost of their own accord, her fingers instead selected Quinn on speed dial.  
  
“Hi, Jane!” Quinn’s voice, bright and cheery, cleansed Jane’s doubt.  
  
“Yo! So guess what?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“I found my dad.”  
  
“You did! Oh my God, that’s fantastic, Jane! I’m so happy for you!”  
  
No sarcasm or snide jokes. Shaking with what Jane thought was barely suppressed laughter, she told the story.  
  
“Anyway,” she said, once she’d brought Quinn up to speed, “I’ll go up to Boston on Friday and meet him on Saturday. I have to find someone to cover my work shifts but I’ve covered other people’s before, so they owe me a favor or two. And since I’m up there, I can pay Daria a visit.”  
  
“Oh, would you? I tried talking to her today but she just seemed so far away.”  
  
“Why don’t you go up with me?” Jane’s eyes widened when she realized what she’d just asked. But why not? It was a long drive. Wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes.  
  
And Quinn had given her the best conversations she’d had in the past few months, sad as that was.  
  
“That’s a _great_ idea! Let my check my schedule…”  
  
“Uh oh, hope you don’t have to disappoint too many suitors on my account,” Jane said.  
  
Quinn laughed. “I’m not doing those kinds of dates anymore. It was fun back in the day but not really what I do _these_ days, you know? I’ll be out of high school pretty soon and it’d just feel weird to be in some big relationship now. Let’s see, I’m going to the movies with Stacy and her boyfriend on Friday night but I can push that back. There’s a party on Saturday but I didn’t really want to go to that one anyway so I’ll just cancel. I’ll be back for the Cashman’s sale on Sunday—but if we’re late it’s still going on for a few more days so whatever.”  
  
Bewildered as she was by Quinn’s social whirlwind, it took Jane a moment to respond with: “Works for me! Clear it with your folks, first.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll ask them. Like I said Jane, they see you as family, so I’m sure they’ll be fine with it."  
  
"But maybe don't mention my dad?" Jane said. "Might sound kind of weird that I'm going up there to meet some guy I don't really know anything about, even if he is related to me. I don't want them to worry about me."  
  
"I get that. I'll say we're going up to see Daria. Oh, and tell Daria about you finding your dad, please?”  
  
“I’ll tell her right after we’re done. Not like I’d have been able to do it without her.”  
  
“Great! This is gonna be so fun, Jane! You were always deep and stuff the way Daria was, and I think I’m pretty deep these days, too. I mean, the stuff they talk about in high school is so boring! All about dates and who’s seeing who, and that’s fun for a while but there’s just gotta be so much _more_ , you know?”  
  
Jane chuckled. “We’ll have a lot to talk about on the way up. See you later, _amiga_.”  
  
Jane hung up. Last time she’d been on a real road trip had been when she and Trent had taken Daria up to Camp Grizzly.  
  
Maybe she should tell Trent. But why? It’s not like he’d done any of the work. She’d tell him eventually.  
  
But this weekend was for her and dad.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**  
  
Jane felt like she was floating off the ground when Friday arrived.  
  
She met Quinn at the Morgendorffer home, getting to say hi to Helen before she left for work.  
  
“It’s so good to see you again, Jane! You and Quinn have fun in Boston! But not too much fun!” she said, laughing as she walked out the door.  
  
Seeing Jane, Jake rubbed his hands together and promised an old-fashioned country breakfast, saying it’d stick to her ribs for that long drive north. His schtick was silly and embarrassing and completely heartfelt. He soon served up a hot plate heavy with scrambled eggs, toasted bread, and sizzling bacon.  
  
Jane hadn’t had a breakfast like that since the last time she’d stayed over at the Morgendorffers, well over a year ago.  
  
Less than an hour later and she and Quinn were zooming down the freeway. The last of Lawndale’s housing tracts and strip malls slipped away, only to be replaced by nearly identical housing tracts and strip malls in other suburbs. But at least they were somewhere else. Somewhere untainted by years of stagnation and failure.  
  
Jane wanted to cheer. She didn’t, of course, but the bubbling spring of joy deep within her breast welled out into the biggest, broadest smile she’d ever worn. Quinn chattered away in the passenger seat, her quick tongue and sharp mind jumping from fashion to the problem with over-large class sizes and back to fashion again with nary an interruption.  
  
She’d have annoyed Jane a few years ago. Now it just felt natural. The world was finally looking up for the simple reason that Jane no longer had to worry about the Lanes. Who needed Daria’s pessimism?  
  
Or Jane’s own, for that matter?  
  
They stopped for lunch at a roadside diner in northern New Jersey. Tourists and salespeople crowded the little place, leaving one window-side booth open to them.  
  
“Is your dad like actually _from_ Japan?” Quinn asked as she waited for her pea soup to cool.  
  
“Nah, he’s an American. At least I’m pretty sure he is. He didn’t have any accent when I talked to him over the phone.”  
  
“This is so exciting. It’s like you’re getting a whole extra family! And I love sushi! It’s tasty and healthy!”  
  
Jane smiled, both envious of and grateful for Quinn’s innocence. “Dad’s from California so I must have relatives there, too.”  
  
Quinn’s gasped. “Hey, maybe they could get you into show business! Are there a lot of Japanese in Hollywood?”  
  
Jane shrugged. “No idea. Not sure Hollywood’s really where I want to go. Unless there’s an upsurge in the demand for matte paintings.”  
  
“Well I think you could make it there. You look really…” Quinn trailed off for a moment, eyes turning up in thought.  
  
“Come on, can’t be that bad can it?”  
  
“No, not bad! I was going to say cute but that’s not really the right word. It’s more like you look really good and also look like no one should mess with you.”  
  
Jane was worried she’d blush. “Glad my thinly veiled hostility is having its desired effect.”  
  
“Some days I wish I could look like that. I mean it’s fun being the center of attention all the time but you get sick of it sometimes, too, you know? Your fashion sense has a lot to do with that, I think.”  
  
“I was wondering when you’d critique my wardrobe.”  
  
Quinn drew herself up in her seat. “The dark bold colors catch the eye but show that you’re tough, maybe even a little dangerous. Like not super-dangerous or scary anything—just enough that people won’t mess with you. And the big boots have a lot to do with that. I mean I wouldn’t want to be kicked in the shins by you!”  
  
Jane laughed. “I’ve never used these to kick anyone. Though I can think of a few worthy targets over the years.”  
  
“It’s not that you’d actually kick someone, just that wearing them lets everyone know you totally _could_. You wear layers which gives you some color and texture variety but they’re fitted well enough that you don’t look all bulky or anything. I always thought you were really stylish. And the bobbed hair is the right kind of retro.”  
  
“I went through a retro phase, once,” Jane said, thinking back to some unpleasant memories. “But I guess I’m pretty happy with the hair.”  
  
Did Quinn mean all of that? Jane saw only sincerity in Quinn’s eyes. She’d never thought of herself as being stylish before. But hey, fashion was a type of art, right?  
  
Another unpleasant memory came up—her and Daria filming Quinn in search of an elusive bad moment. And they’d finally gotten one. The perfect humiliation for the perfect girl.  
  
What on Earth had made her think Quinn deserved such a thing? It’d had been Daria who finally stepped back. Jane hadn’t pushed either way, just along for the ride. If Daria had gone all the way with that awful project Jane would have as well.  
  
And here Quinn was cheering her on even though she knew Jane’s culpability.  
  
They made steady progress toward Boston in spite of the traffic. After exhausting Quinn’s Boys R Guys albums they pulled over and Jane put in a burned CD she’d made the other night, filled with The Cure’s happier songs. Quinn hadn’t heard of them but got into the music.  
  
“I think Stacy would really like this song,” she said, moving her head to the beat of “Friday I’m in Love”.  
  
“Looks like I’ve finally brought goth to the remnants of the Fashion Club,” Jane said.  
  
“Wait, these guys are a _goth_ band?”  
  
“Yup! Well, kind of sort of. Goth-adjacent, anyway. Trent gave me a big lecture about that once.”  
  
“Oh my God, remember that time I wore all black for like a week? What was I _thinking_?” Quinn doubled over with laughter.  
  
“See, you were already getting into the goth spirit. You just didn’t know it, yet,” Jane said.  
  
“That’s ‘cuz I didn’t have you to introduce me to great new music!”  
  
“If you like that I can get you into German expressionism next.”  
  
“Is that like techno or something?”  
  
“It’s an art style. I guess you could say it’s also goth-adjacent. Or maybe goth is German expressionist-adjacent…”  
  
The insane snarl of Boston’s roads and traffic added another two hours to their trip, and the sun had set by the time they reached Raft University. Quinn called to let Daria know they’d arrived while Jane searched the campus for guest parking, finally finding it after far too long spent driving in circles.  
  
“I think we follow this path to Daria’s dorm,” Quinn said, her voice subdued.  
  
The two of them walked as quickly as they could under the weight of their luggage cases and sleeping bags. Spherical lamps shone bright but ghostly on the wrought-iron posts along the paths, casting yellow light on walls of brick and ivy.  
  
“How did she sound?” Jane asked.  
  
Quinn was silent for a moment. “I’m _really_ glad you came with me, Jane.”  
  
They found Daria standing at the front of her dorm, her arms crossed and hair disheveled, lamplight reflected in the thick lenses of her glasses. She almost seemed consumed by the weight of her enormous coat. Her breath came out in puffs of steam that made Jane think of a dragon, waiting and watchful.  
  
“Hey, amiga!” Jane said, trying to sound glad to see her friend.  
  
“It’s so good to see you again, sis!” Quinn jogged ahead with her arms outstretched.  
  
“Don’t you mean cousin?”  
  
Quinn halted in her tracks. “Come on, that was a long time ago,” she protested, her voice shy.  
  
Daria made an exasperated sigh. “Thanks for making the trip up here, both of you. I’ll sign you into the guest registry.”  
  
Daria led them inside. The lobby’s warm light revealed the dark circles beneath her eyes. A sense of defeat already settled over Jane and she suspected Quinn felt the same way. They paid to stay for a few nights and Daria saw them through. With that they walked down the dorm’s noisy halls. Music piped out from open doors and mingled with the relaxed aimlessness of friendly conversation.  
  
Daria stalked through the scene as if the sight of it caused her pain.  
  
“Here’s my room,” she finally said. “I take no responsibility for the portion close to the door.”  
  
Jane stepped into a riot of neon colors and bright plastic. It took a moment for her eyes to sort the chaos: _Sailor Moon_ wall scrolls and posters of Japanese boy bands; plastic figurines of cartoon characters with enormous heads whose eyes somehow managed to look even more enormous, about half of them flashing the peace sign; endless volumes of manga crammed between bookends and forming tottering towers on the floor.  
  
She almost didn’t notice the girl sitting at the desk, almost hiding behind her figurines.  
  
This was going to be interesting. Jane decided not to mention her newfound ethnicity.  
  
“Jane, Quinn: this is my roommate, Audrey,” Daria said.  
  
The girl waved. “Hi!” she said, her voice a squeak. Jane just waved awkwardly.  
  
“This is my cousin—I mean _sister_ —Quinn, and my friend, Jane. And here’s where I live.”  
  
Daria pointed to the other side of the room. The bright chaos of Audrey’s walls stopped abruptly at the stucco desert of Daria’s, her half devoid of decoration.  
  
“Hey, Jane, maybe Audrey could teach you some Japanese!” Quinn blurted out.  
  
She hopped up from her seat and bowed, moving so quickly that her dirty blonde hair spilled over her face. “Genki! Gomenasai—I don’t know very much. I only took a few years of it in high school.”  
  
“Oh, that’s really cool!” Quinn said.  
  
Jane gritted her teeth and shook her head, hoping Quinn would see.  
  
Quinn didn’t. “Jane just found out she’s half-Japanese!”  
  
Audrey hopped on the floor and balled her hands into quivering fists. “That’s so awesome!”  
  
Daria gave a bitter little laugh as she retreated to her side of the room.  
  
“Uh, it sure is,” Jane said, not sure what to make of the sheer glut of Japanese pop culture on display or Audrey’s enthusiasm. “But you know, I’m sure my dad can tell me—”  
  
“Do you watch anime?”  
  
“Not really—"  
  
“Oh, I’ve got a whole bunch I could show you while you’re here! Have you ever visited Japan?”  
  
“See,” Jane said, speaking loudly in hope that Audrey would let her talk, “I only found out I was half-Japanese earlier this week. It’s kind of a new thing for me.”  
  
“There’s so much to learn! I want to go there so bad someday!” she groaned. “I have a kimono and a mo-bakama somewhere in here, I wore them when I was cosplaying Sango from _Inuyasha_!”  
  
Jane tried to wave her off. “Thanks, but maybe some other time. I just drove up from Baltimore and I’m really beat.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Audrey said, looking disappointed enough that Jane actually felt a little bad for her.  
  
“But yeah, maybe you can teach me a few words later on.”  
  
Did dad even speak Japanese? It occurred to Jane that she didn’t know.  
  
She beat a retreat to Daria’s side of the room, where Quinn was watching the exchange with a look of mild bemusement. Daria was already sitting on her bed, leaning against the headrest.  
  
“So how’s life at Raft?” Jane asked. Daria wasn’t even looking at Jane, her eyes on the blank TV.  
  
“Let’s see. I attend classes where idiots pontificate on books I’ve already and read and force myself to join clubs where the future robber barons of the 21st century pat each other on the backs for how well-read they claim to be—they’ve all just discovered Kerouac, you see, and are now _oh so enamored_ of his free spirit.”  
  
Quinn sat down next to Daria. “That bad, huh?”  
  
Daria scoffed. “Bad is when a roving militia murders your family and puts you in a slave labor camp. Raft isn’t _bad_. It’s just normal.”  
  
Quinn gave Jane an alarmed look.  
  
“Jane!” came Audrey’s voice. “I know you said you wanted to relax but I found the kimono, do you want to at least try it?”  
  
Jane turned around to see Audrey holding up a pink and maroon kimono.  
  
Maybe saying yes would be the best way to get her to shut up. “Okay, fine,” Jane said, holding out her hand in warning, “but no more than that, okay? I’m just going to put it over my regular clothes.”  
  
Audrey giggled as she stepped forward. “It’s so cool to meet someone who appreciates Japanese culture! And I’m so honored I can help you get in touch with it. A kimono has to be put on the right way, so I’ll show you. I guess you can skip the juban…”  
  
“So tell me about this new dad of yours?” Daria said, still not looking at Jane whose left arm Audrey was trying to push through a voluminous sleeve.  
  
“Not much to tell, yet. He used to be a musician, like Trent. He actually looks _a lot_ like Trent. But he shaped up! He has some kind of transportation job.”  
  
“Transporting _what_?”  
  
With both Jane’s arms sleeved, Audrey worked on closing up the garment.  
  
“Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”  
  
Daria finally looked at Jane, her expression dejected. “Mm. Hope it works.” She went back to staring at the blank TV.  
  
“There!” Audrey exclaimed. “Look in the mirror.”  
  
Jane did. She gasped—it actually looked good on her. The clothes she wore underneath disrupted the garment’s flow but the precise patterns gave her an elegant and almost regal appearance.  
  
For the first time in her life, Jane felt like a queen. Which wasn’t something she’d ever wanted to feel, but she found she liked it.  
  
“Congratulations at fully embracing a careless American interpretation of your age-old culture,” Daria said.  
  
Audrey made an indignant noise. “For your information, Daria, the kimono is a traditional Japanese garment and _Inyuasha_ is a Japanese show that takes place during Japanese history!”  
  
“It’s a cartoon for kids supported by merchandising empire of plastic toys. Get back to me when you read the _Tale of Genji_ or maybe attend a Noh play.”  
  
“Okay, is there a Noh theater in Boston? I’ll go if there is!”  
  
“ _You’re_ the Japanophile, _you_ search for it,” Daria retorted.  
  
Quinn’s jaw dropped.  
  
“Uh, I really like the kimono, Audrey,” Jane said, seeing how upset Audrey was. “Thanks.”  
  
“Sure. Glad you like it,” Audrey said, her voice muted. “I’ll need it back tomorrow but you can wear it for now. It’s a special occasion for you.” She retreated back to her desk, her head hung low.  
  
This was bad. Quinn had said Daria had gone back to the way she was before Lawndale, but Jane couldn’t imagine her ever being this unpleasant.  
  
“Is Mr. O’Neill still polluting minds at Lawndale?” Daria asked.  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Quinn answered. “But we’re here now! So tell us about, like, university and stuff! Meet any cute college guys? They’re way cuter than high school guys, huh.”  
  
“If by cute you mean consumed by a raging intellectual vanity that would put Tom to shame, then yes.”  
  
Their conversation struggled in fits and starts. Getting Daria to speak was like pulling teeth. Finally, Jane gave up and sat on a wooden trunk next to the window, still in her kimono, while Quinn tried to reach her sister.  
  
Talking to Daria used to be so easy. There was so much to make fun of, each wry comment leading the way to another, their conversation so dense with allusion and mockery that a scholar could write a treatise on them.  
  
Then again, all Daria had done that night was mock. She hadn’t usually been that cruel though, had she?  
  
The question was: had Daria changed? Or had she stayed completely the same?  
  
All that and Jane would be meeting her real father the next day.  
  
“Hey, Jane,” Audrey said. “I think I found one you’d like. It’s an anime called _Sengoku Mecha-Samurai_ —it’s a retelling of Japanese history during the Sengoku Jidai but in a science-fiction setting where the samurai pilot giant robots.”  
  
Audrey was also wearing a kimono, this one a light blue with a pattern of falling white leaves.  
  
“During the Sen-what?” Jane asked.  
  
“Period of warring states. It was one of the most dramatic times in Japanese history—here, I have the entire first season! You want to watch?” She held out the DVD case, an imploring look on her face.  
  
“You know what? Why not?”  
  
For the next hour Jane tried to follow the story of _Sengoku Mecha-Samurai_ , which seemed to mostly involve impossibly beautiful people who piloted elaborate battle robots. Audrey sometimes interjected.  
  
“Do you know who those blue aliens are supposed to be?” Audrey asked.  
  
Like nearly every other character, the blue aliens were beautiful and boasted inconveniently long hair, always silver in their case.  
  
“I’m pretty sure you’re the expert on who they’re supposed to be,” Jane said.  
  
“Well they’re the Zatai in the anime, but they’re based on the Europeans who were selling guns to the Japanese during the early Sengoku Jidai. That’s why the Zatai are making a deal with the Taiga Principality, which is based off of Oda Nobunaga’s forces. He worked really closely with Europeans and even welcomed Jesuit missionaries because they weakened the powerful Buddhist monasteries. Those Zatai spirit warriors are kind of like Jesuits if Jesuits piloted bio-mechs and fought people all the time.”  
  
“Oh. Got it,” Jane lied.  
  
Daria and Quinn had fallen silent. Jane glanced back at their side. Quinn had dozed off. Daria was still on her bed, reading a book in the glow of a clip-on light attached to her headboard. Jane could just make out the title: _High Rise_ , by JG Ballard.  
  
Suddenly she no longer felt ready for the next day. It was nearly midnight. Audrey seemed determined to take her through the first season of _Sengoku Mecha-Samurai_ while Daria was completely indifferent to Jane’s presence.  
  
She could only hope her dad would react better than either of them had.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**  
  
Jane heard the clink of plates and the hum of low voices as the rest of the café swirled around the silent table where she, Quinn, and Daria had gathered for breakfast. The surrounding liveliness didn’t touch them but was at least _present_ , the long hours in Daria’s suffocating dorm as grim as a nightmare but also as fleeting as one.  
  
“You’re meeting your dad really soon, right?” Quinn asked. If she’d suffered from lack of sleep, she didn’t show it.  
  
“At noon, so about three hours from now.”  
  
Quinn shivered. “That must be so exciting, but kind of scary. Are you ready?”  
  
“Not really, but that’s never stopped me before,” Jane said.  
  
“What did your dad say he did for a living?” Daria asked. No longer made ominous by night’s shadows, Daria just looked sad and tired and several years younger than her actual age, a look exacerbated by her baggy clothes.  
  
“Transportation.”  
  
Daria looked up from her coffee. “And like I asked last night, transporting what?”  
  
“Bales of cocaine!” Jane held out her arms. “Bales and bales of it!”  
  
Quinn giggled.  
  
“Jane, this is serious,” Daria continued. “You don’t know what kind of person he is.”  
  
Jane let her arms fall and rolled her eyes. “God, Daria, me and dad just getting lunch in a restaurant. Even if he was into something shady it’s not like he could do anything to me in public.”  
  
“Maybe. But maybe you should also ask why this father of yours made no attempt to contact you for the past 18 or so years. Even if he isn’t a criminal he doesn’t exactly sound like a winner.”  
  
No words. After all her years of friendship with this strange girl she had no words. Jane took a deep breath. Daria kept staring. Her lower lip trembled for a moment.  
  
“Daria, just let Jane do this, okay?” Quinn said.  
  
Seeing Quinn’s concern, Jane swallowed her words. It must be nice to have a sibling who actually looked out for you. Naturally Daria didn’t appreciate it.  
  
 _I hate you_ , Jane thought.  
  
“I’m not stopping her. I do think some caution is in order. You don’t want to be hurt by him. Physically or emotionally.” Daria gulped after she spoke, her lower lip trembling again.  
  
“What, are you worried about me? I sure wouldn’t have guessed. How many times have you called me since moving to Boston? Once? I called you a dozen times and you barely talk. And now that I’ve actually found someone who maybe does care, who actually gives me a chance to be something else, you get on my case about it.” Jane didn’t raise her voice. No point in a big public argument.  
  
All human expression fled Daria’s face, her features suddenly as emotionless as a mannequin’s. “It’s not like you’ve had very good judgment about this in the past. Or have you forgotten Nathan?”  
  
“Nathan’s one of the _many_ things from high school I’m trying to forget.” She pushed back from the table. “Probably best that I get a head start. I think eight bucks covers it?” she said, looking at Quinn.  
  
“Yeah, that should be good. Jane, call me when you get there.”  
  
“Right, I know the drill.”  
  
Her bad mood evaporated once she stepped outside. She wasn’t someone who believed everything happened for a reason. So far as she was concerned there was almost never a reason, and if there was one it was usually bad. But meeting Daria like this was the wake-up call she’d needed.  
  
Just like the Lanes, Daria had never really needed her. She’d tried to tell this to Jane more than once—during her stint in track team, with Tom—but this time Jane listened.  
  
Boston was aflame in morning’s golden glow, the old gabled roofs and the crimson leaves of autumn all gilded with heavenly light. This would be Jane’s home soon, free of the Lanes, Daria at a safe distance, and finally with some real family.  
  
And there she’d create, her soul poured out on canvas to bloom in a million different hues to reach out and set minds and hearts alight from Boston to Tokyo and every spot in between, and the stern but gentle voices of the father and aunts and uncles and cousins she’d never known , making sure she was warm in Boston’s cold winter, making sure her belly was full and that she never got too thirsty, telling her how much they loved her and her art and how empty the world had been before her, before Jane Matsuoka.  
  
She wanted to dance across the sidewalks.  
  
Jane reached the subway in a giddy state. It was only with effort that she figured out the map. She counted the stops as the train moved, a big dumb smile on her face all the while.  
  
Somewhere she’d read that Asian families tended to be a lot more tight-knit than white ones. And that did put Edwin’s actions into context. He’d probably expected to actually raise a family with Amanda (and maybe Vincent, too). To be a part of his children’s lives.  
  
When Amanda decided to flake out in her selfish way, like she always did, Edwin probably wouldn’t have known what to do. Dealing with the loss of his kids and the difficulties of a fading music career he might’ve just been overwhelmed.  
  
Now he was working in one of America’s great cities! Maybe he did need some help. Jane could finally be a daughter to someone.  
  
She reached Nelly’s Seaside Grill, the rendezvous point, with an hour to kill. Leaning against the restaurant’s brick wall, she waited, too nervous to go anywhere or do anything. Last-minute anxieties flitted through her mind: what she’d gotten the wrong place? What if she didn’t recognize him?  
  
But recognition proved easy when she saw a man who looked like a balding Trent with a paunch walking toward her. He wore jeans and a weathered t-shirt—again, very Trent-like. She suddenly wished she’d brought her brother.  
  
This was it. Her skin prickled with tension as she stepped out to face her father, her mouth slightly open and eyes wide. Dad slowed down. Maybe some element of himself in Jane’s build or features caught his attention, a connection of blood still strong over the years and miles.  
  
“Edwin? Dad?”  
  
“You’re Jane?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, heart stopped in expectation.  
  
He took in a deep breath and then exhaled, the air whooshing out of his open mouth. “Okay. Uh, let’s get lunch.”  
  
“Right!” Jane said, her enthusiasm ebbing across the single syllable.  
  
It wasn’t going to be like some Hallmark movie. This was the real world. Things were awkward, things took time. But it was a start.  
  
They stayed silent until they got seated next to a grimy window, a neon Budweiser sign glowing above her dad’s bald pate. The smell of burned fish hung heavy in the greasy air. Not the nicest  
place, but homey enough.  
  
“You go here a lot?” Jane asked, not sure where to start.  
  
“Sometimes. It’s okay.”  
  
“You must know all the best Japanese restaurants here.”  
  
Dad made a face and shrugged. “Some of it’s okay but they can’t make it here like they do in California.”  
  
“Or in Japan, I’d bet.”  
  
“Wouldn’t know, I’ve never been,” he said.  
  
“Do you speak Japanese?”  
  
He shook his head. “I mean, I know a few words. Mom tried to teach me.”  
  
“Was she from Japan? What about your dad? Do you—I mean, do we—have relatives there?”  
  
“Hold on, hold on.” Dad held out his hands. “My folks were both from California. Their folks were from Nagoya and I know I got some cousins in Japan but I’ve never met or talked to them. I got one  
brother in California—he’s a dentist. Haven’t talked to him in eight years.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s hard to keep in touch.”  
  
“Okay, so Jane, you asked a bunch of questions. My turn. What do you want, exactly?”  
  
Jane blinked. “What am I supposed to want? I just wanted to meet you.”  
  
“That’s all? Look, I don’t have much money or anything. So if you want money, well—I don’t really have any to give.”  
  
Jane forced a laugh. “Well I always want money—but I’m an artist, so I know better than to expect it. I got into BFAC! I’ll be in town a lot.”  
  
Dad scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with a roommate. Can’t really do much for you there. Did Amanda send you here?”  
  
Jane had the momentary sensation of freefall in her chair. She hadn’t moved, still rooted in this dank old restaurant. She sniffed, her fingers nervously clutching the green-and-white checkerboard tablecloth.  
  
“Amanda doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not asking you for anything, dad. I just wanted to talk.”  
  
“Okay? We could’ve done that over the phone.”  
  
Her vision blurred. This was some mistake. “Yeah well I could’ve asked you for money over the phone, too! I came here because I’m related to you and I’ve never seen you! I didn’t even know I was half-Japanese until this week! That’s kind of a big change.”  
  
Daria’s voice echoed in her mind. _But maybe you should also ask why this father of yours made no attempt to contact you for the past 18 or so years._  
  
He held out his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Life’s kind of tough right now. And I didn’t really expect to ever hear from you and Trent again.”  
  
“I bet mom—I mean, Amanda—had a lot to do with that.”  
  
Dad whistled. “It was weird with her.”  
  
“It always is!” she said. Here was the connection, the two of them suffering from Amanda’s carelessness.  
  
“I was still in my twenties when you were born. Trying to get a career off the ground. I didn’t want to be tied down, and Amanda said it was best just to let things go. I know Vincent’s kind of flaky but I figured he’d be a good dad.”  
  
“You figured wrong.” Jane blurted it out without thinking.  
  
“I did? Huh.”  
  
“Are you still a musician?” The light-headedness returned. Something seemed to be buzzing inside Jane’s skull.  
  
“Sometimes. Look, I’m still trying to get my life together. I drank. A lot. I barely remember most of the ‘90s. But hey, I’ve been three years sober. Drive a taxi for a living, play music at gigs if I can get them. What do you do?”  
  
Just like the track team. Just like Nathan. Just like Tom, like Trent, like mom, like dad. _Just like Daria!  
_  
“I’m an artist! I told you a minute ago!”  
  
“Oh, right! Sorry. Look, Jane: I wasn’t even sure we should meet. I don’t know what you were expecting—hell, I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m a screw-up. Not someone who should be a parent.”  
  
“You are one, though. Whether you like it or not.”  
  
“When I left, I thought Amanda and Vincent would just tell you that you were theirs.”  
  
“No. Amanda—or mom—whatever you call that bitch—she thought she told me about you but forgot to. That’s how I found out. Her admitting that she forgot to tell me.”  
  
“Whoa! That’s messed up. But they’d have been better parents than me. You don’t know how much of a mess I was, Jane. You know why I haven’t talked to my brother? Because last time I visited California I got so drunk I threw up into my mom’s casket.”  
  
Jane stood up. A million screams fought to escape her throat but all she did was sigh.  
  
“You know what, dad? Forget lunch. I’m not hungry.”  
  
She turned around and walked out the door. She couldn’t quite hear what Edwin said to her as she left, but she heard the relief in his voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7  
  
** Jane walked away from Nelly’s Seaside Grill without any clear destination in mind, wanting only to escape and be alone. She found a park and slumped down on an bench shaded by scarlet-leaved maples.  
  
No escape. Like Trent said, she was who she was. The Lanes were screw-ups and so was her dad. Bad genetic material and a bad environment.  
  
Was that waited after BFAC? A life spent chasing and never attaining artistic success while burning every bridge she’d ever built?  
  
Her phone rang. It was Quinn.  
  
She picked it up and pressed talk. “I’m fine, I’ll be back later,” she said, and then hung up.  
  
Hours passed. The sun sank from its zenith, light ruddy and shadows long between the brownstones and brickwork. Numb to the world, she watched the life of the city go on around her. There was a certain comfort in it all, she supposed. Nothing she did mattered.  
  
The phone rang again. This time it was Trent. She let it ring a few times, weighing the pros and cons of picking up, before she finally did.  
  
“Yeah?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.  
  
“Hey, Janey. Where are you? I came back to the house today but you weren’t there. Mom said she hadn’t seen you.”  
  
Jane knew better than to wonder if mom had asked about her whereabouts.  
  
“Jane?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m in Boston right now. Visiting Daria.”  
  
God, she still had to spend another night with _her_.  
  
“Very cool. Okay, just wanted to know where you were.”  
  
Jane hung up. Seeing how late it was she got up from the bench and walked to the subway station. She followed the lines back without much trouble, emerging next to Raft’s copper-roofed halls.  
  
A vague memory of the map brought her back to the dorms. Booted feet stumped their way down the halls until she saw the bright clash of colors from Audrey’s half of the room.  
  
Only Daria was inside, sitting on her bed and staring at the blank TV.  
  
Jane hesitated. Did she even want to say hi?  
  
“How did it go?” Daria asked, not looking at Jane.  
  
“You were right about him. He’s a deadbeat. He’s Trent plus thirty years. Feel better?”  
  
Daria shook her head.  
  
“You sure seemed happy about it this morning.”  
  
Daria finally looked at Jane, her lips curled in a frown. “Happy’s not something I do. I saw you—a friend—walking into a situation that could turn bad. I tried to warn you. And I’m sorry I was right. I’m sorry a lot.”  
  
Her head swiveled back to the TV.  
  
“That’s the closest I’m going to get to an apology from you, isn’t it,” Jane said. “Where’s Quinn?”  
  
“She decided to do some shopping.”  
  
“I guess I’ll just wait here in silence, then.”  
  
Jane walked over to her sleeping bag and laid out on top of it. At least she’d never be visiting Raft again.  
  
“I’m sorry I got you into BFAC,” Daria said, still on her bed.  
  
“You’re that sick of me? How about this, Daria: after tomorrow, I promise you’ll never see me again.”  
  
“No, I mean…”  
  
She was silent for such a long time that Jane began to think she’d given up on the conversation.  
  
“You didn’t want to go to BFAC,” she finally continued. “And I encouraged you. But you were right. College is terrible. _I hate this place!_ ”  
  
It was the most emotion Jane had ever heard in Daria’s voice.  
  
“And I hate that I pushed you to go to the starving artist’s version of the same,” Daria continued.  
  
Not immediately sure how to respond, Jane said nothing.  
  
“Can’t be worse than Lawndale, right?”  
  
“Look, Jane. I don’t blame you for wanting to be rid of me. I just wanted to apologize for getting you into BFAC. You were a good friend and you deserved better.”  
  
Jane propped herself on one elbow so that she could just see Daria’s profile, bespectacled eyes still locked on the blank screen.  
  
“Okay, well you can’t just tell me something like that and not go into more detail. What’s so awful about Raft?”  
  
“There’s nothing here.”  
  
“I saw lots of stuff just walking through campus this morning. Old brick buildings, weird political clubs, and professors who unironically wear tweed jackets with leather patches.”  
  
“It’s all awful. Please quit BFAC. I don’t want that on my conscience.”  
  
“No can do, ami—” Jane cut herself off before she could finish the word. Instead she stood up and walked over to the trunk, sitting down on it so she could get a better look at Daria.  
  
She looked like a broken doll.  
  
“Staying in Lawndale wouldn’t be good for me either,” Jane said.  
  
“At least you wouldn’t be wasting money.”  
  
“What _exactly_ do you hate so much about Raft? I know, I know, there’s ‘nothing’ here, but what specifically?”  
  
Daria sighed. “College is supposed to be a place full of smart people. And for once I thought I might fit in. But I don’t. And given that university’s typically the intellectual peak of a person’s life, that means it’s going to get even worse from here on out. These probably _are_ the best times of my life. Which means I’m really scared of what comes after this.”  
  
“Oh come on, the best times of your life are when you’re in middle management crushing the dreams of everyone beneath you.”  
  
“At this rate, I’d be lucky to reach middle management with my sanity intact.”  
  
“Hey, insanity might be an asset in the right company,” Jane said.  
  
“Not to mention during the trial for the inevitable financial scandal. As in ‘not guilty by reason of’.”  
  
“See, there you go! Everything’s coming up roses.”  
  
Daria smiled. The smile lasted a nanosecond but Jane saw it. Daria's actions now made more sense. Completely adrift and cut off from her support network, how could she not backslide?  
  
Not that it excused her. Part of Jane wanted to sit next to Daria and put her arm around her—God, she looked like she needed it. But her words from the morning and the previous night still echoed in Jane’s memory.  
  
“I probably can’t convince you to ditch BFAC, can I,” Daria said.  
  
“No, you can’t. But look on the bright side. If it works well for me, I’ll have tons of opportunities. And if it sucks for me as much as Raft does for you, you’ll have someone to commiserate with.”  
  
“I’d rather you be happy. But if I have to share abject misery with someone, I could do a lot worse than you.”  
  
*********  
  
Quinn didn’t pry too much into Jane’s meeting with Edwin. Jane gave the broad details—that he didn’t seem that great a guy. But she preferred to describe it as an annoyance and not as the heartbreak it had been.  
  
“Sorry my sister was being such a jerk at first. She doesn’t mean to be like that. Well, not most of the time,” Quinn said as they drove down the New Jersey Turnpike on Sunday.  
  
“Nah, I’m used to her moods.”  
  
“She seemed happier last night, at least. I think you cheered her up, Jane. You’re really good at that.”  
  
“Got to be good at _something_.”  
  
Jane dropped Quinn off at the Morgendorffer home at sunset.  
  
“Hey, Jane!” Quinn stood in front of the open passenger door. “I had a really fun time traveling with you. Give me a call if you ever want to hang out!”  
  
“Sounds good, Quinn. Guess if I’m an unofficial Morgendorffer I might as well get to know my other sister.”  
  
From there, Jane drove to the shambling wreck of Casa Lane. The Tank had taken mom’s place in the driveway.  
  
How much should she tell Trent? Part of her wanted to hide it away—not like he’d earned the right to know, not the way she had. Edwin being a loser wouldn’t phase him, wouldn’t make him realize how badly he was fouling up his own life.  
  
But more than anyone else, he got it. The lean days and cold nights in the drafty old house. Amanda and Vincent and their weird friends coming in at odd hours and leaving at hours odder still.  
  
She parked the car and walked up to the door, unlocking it and stepping inside.  
  
“Trent? You here?” she called out.  
  
“Right here, Janey,” Trent said, his voice echoing through the empty rooms. Sounded like he was in the kitchen.  
  
Sure enough he’d made himself comfortable, sitting on a chair tilted back to the wall and his feet up on the kitchen table.  
  
“How’s Daria doing?” he asked.  
  
“Not great. I met dad.”  
  
The only surprise Trent showed was in the way his eyebrows inched up. “Whoa. You actually found him?”  
  
“I searched the Internet, got some leads. You know how it goes. He’s a musician like you. Not a successful one.”  
  
“Heh. Like me, I guess.” Trent took his feet off the table and righted his chair, pulling out another for Jane to sit on.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, taking a seat. “Edwin Matsuoka’s basically a big screw-up. Didn’t want either of us. He was glad that Amanda and Vincent decided to be mom and dad since that meant he didn’t have to do anything except drink himself into a stupor. He did stop drinking—at least, he said he did.”  
  
“Huh. I was afraid of something like that,” Trent said.  
  
“Is that what you were trying to tell me earlier this week?”  
  
“Yeah. Didn’t do a good job, though.”  
  
“I cut you off before you could say much,” Jane admitted. “Edwin did say that he has a brother in California who’s a dentist. So we might have a responsible uncle. I don’t really feel like finding out right now.”  
  
“Best just to take things as they come. It’s like I said, we are what we are.”  
  
“Screw-ups.”  
  
Trent raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a screw-up, Janey.”  
  
“Why not? Amanda and Vincent are. Edwin is. Our siblings are.” She halted herself before she could finish.  
  
“I am,” Trent said.  
  
Embarrassed, Jane looked down. “You said it, not me.”  
  
“But you aren’t,” Trent said. “Think about it, Janey. Think about all the times you kept this house going. You paid the bills, you got things fixed. There was that one time you kept the bank from foreclosing on the house.”  
  
“Daria helped with that.”  
  
“Still, it’s not like any of us did anything. But _you_ did. Just rolled with the punches and kept on going. Heh, I got really freaked out with the foreclosure. Thought I was going to be on the streets. Sure was glad my kid sister could save the day, though.”  
  
“It’s not that big of a deal, Trent. That’s just getting through life. Doing what needs to be done.”  
  
“Most of us Lanes don’t. Only you do. No one even taught you how. You just figured it out as you went. And if you can do all that with a family that does nothing, well, you got something going for you.”  
  
Jane let herself smile. “You didn’t do nothing, Trent. You gave valuable moral support.”  
  
“Heh, moral support. I like that.”  
  
Jane looked around the empty kitchen. “Where’s mom?”  
  
“She took off this morning. Something about an art exhibit in Cincinnati.”  
  
“I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty beat, so I’ll go up to my room. I have a morning shift tomorrow.”  
  
And she was probably the only Lane who’d ever show up to such a thing.  
  
 **The End**


End file.
